


Be My Temporary Angel

by anodyneer



Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Motion Sickness, Sickfic, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyneer/pseuds/anodyneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter becomes ill during a training exercise, it takes some of his dignity, but it leaves him - and Neal - with a better understanding of who will be there when they fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Temporary Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Peter Whump Day](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/145599.html) at [White Collar H/C](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/). Also fills the motion sickness square on my [HC Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) card.
> 
> Title is from "Temporary Angel" by Pat Green.

“Where did you say we were going again?” Neal asked, stirring his noodles around with his chopsticks before taking a bigger bite than he would have liked.

Peter looked at him over the top of his hot dog, which was smothered in mustard and sauerkraut, before popping the last of it into his mouth. “I didn’t.” He wiped his mouth and started on the second dog, leaning forward so he wouldn’t get anything on his suit. “It’s called SITS – a new training program.” 

Neal looked up at him, a cocky smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Sit training? You’re going to obedience school?”

“Do you want me to come over there and explain it to you?” Peter waved his hot dog in Neal’s direction.

“Oh, no. You stay down at your end of the bench. That stuff smells almost as bad as deviled ham.”

“It’s good,” Peter mumbled around another bite. “Especially on hot dogs. You really don’t eat sauerkraut?”

“I’ve humored Moz a few times when he’s made it with a pork roast, but only if he cooks it somewhere else and we eat it on the terrace. It’s not one of my favorites.” At Peter’s raised eyebrows, Neal shrugged. “He says it brings good luck or money, or maybe both. Don’t ask him to elaborate; we probably don’t want to know.”

“Only on New Year’s Day.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Finish your noodle…stuff. We need to get going.”

“To obedience school.”

“Dammit, Neal.” Peter washed down the last bite with some of his water, secretly pleased that he’d managed to not wear any of the messy toppings. “SITS. S-I-T-S. It’s short for Sensory Immersion Training Simulator.”

“Another acronym. Should I even try to act surprised?”

“Get up; let’s go.” Peter motioned for him to stand, shaking his head. “It’s a virtual reality training simulator that immerses new trainees in the experience. They put them in separate rooms, turn the lights out, project videos of an emergent situation all around them, and pump in the appropriate sounds, smells, everything. They can see the other trainees as if they’re right there with them, and they can even interact with each other if needed. It’s the latest technology – still in the testing phase.”

Neal walked beside him, finishing the last of his noodles. “So why you? And why me?”

Peter looked vaguely proud of himself. “Because they chose the best field agents from Manhattan and Newark to test it out before implementing it. We were selected based on performance reviews, firearms testing, physical fitness scores, reasoning and judgment aptitude test results – you get the idea. I took part in their first test phase back when you took your little trip to Cape Verde, and I did well enough that they invited me back for the second phase. Apparently, they’ve made extensive improvements to it since then. I’m looking forward to seeing if they used any of my suggestions.”

“Nice. That still doesn’t answer my second question.” Neal threw his cup in the trash and jogged a few steps to catch up with Peter.

“You’re coming along because I’m barely allowed to let you out of my sight during work hours anymore, remember?” The whole Pratt situation may have been behind them, but as a result, Neal’s leash was tighter than ever for the time being.

“You let me go to the men’s room by myself.”

Peter stopped at the Taurus and sighed, his eyes rolling briefly skyward. “Should I really dignify that with a response?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Good call. Get in.”

\-------------

The FBI agents at the training facility, located adjacent to the police academy in Queens, weren’t particularly thrilled to have Neal in their midst, but they acquiesced when they realized he and Peter were a package deal. Though it was clear they were keeping tabs on him, they were satisfied to let him sit alone in a corner of the control room, playing games on his phone. 

Peter eventually emerged from a side room wearing, much to Neal’s amusement, a skintight motion capture body suit. It was two pieces – bottoms and a long-sleeved top, sleek and black – and there was a medical monitoring harness wrapped around Peter’s torso just below his impressive pecs. He also wore a pair of black tactical boots, as well as black gloves and a sophisticated-looking helmet outfitted with cameras on either side and a glasses-like device that flipped down over his eyes.

After checking in with the agent at the control desk, he headed in Neal’s direction.

“Peter! Just get back from the sci-fi convention? Great cosplay, man.”

Peter’s expression settled in somewhere between disappointment and sarcasm. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? This is cutting-edge technology. Shouldn’t you be taking notes for Mozzie or something?”

Neal held up his phone. “Already on it.”

“You’re probably playing Angry Birds.”

Neal shrugged innocently. “Texas Hold’em,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Plausible deniability.” A high-wattage grin spread across his face.

“Agent Burke,” one of the training agents called over to him. “We’re ready for you.”

Peter nodded at him before turning back to Neal. “Stay here. And don’t – _don’t_ – push any buttons or mess with things like you do in the car.”

Neal’s brow furrowed. “Seriously, Peter? I’m not five.”

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath before fixing Neal with an apologetic stare. “Look, just stay out of trouble. Please.” He walked toward the three other similarly-outfitted agents.

“What’s this button do?” Neal called out, watching for the cringe from Peter. He got it, though Peter didn’t turn to look at him like most of the others in the room. Smiling and waving at them, he settled back in with his game.

\-------------

The first hint that something might not be going according to plan came nearly half an hour later. It had taken them several minutes to get settled into their separate simulators, and then the training instructor reminded them of the basics. All of them had been involved in the previous test, so once everyone was secure and their suits were checked to make sure they were properly tracking, the simulation started quickly.

Neal had half-listened to the instructions and barely registered the droning voices of the technicians seated at panels near the front of the room. Though each technician was monitoring a participant through headphones, they didn’t talk to them, only occasionally speaking with each other about details of the scenario taking place in the simulator. It all looked a bit NASA-esque to him, and he’d only watched for a few minutes.

“S2, possible synchronization deviance.”

That got Neal’s attention. The simulators were numbered, one through four, and Peter was in the second one. He sat up and momentarily forgot about his phone, his eyes going from one technician to the next.

The instructor, a barrel-chested agent with a high and tight haircut who looked to be a few years older than Peter, walked to the tech’s station and leaned in, looking over the man’s shoulder. “Is the system recalibrating?”

The tech touched the screen in front of him a few times, then examined the data closely. “No, sir, not yet.”

The instructor nodded and went back to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Give it time. If it doesn’t recalibrate, or if the alert sounds again, let me know.” 

Things seemed to return to normal for a few minutes, and Neal was just about to resume his game when the same technician spoke again.

“S2, synchronization failure.” The tech who’d spoken glanced up at the instructor before going back to his screen, and the instructor approached to stand next to him once again.

“It didn’t recalibrate?”

“No, Agent Rotz, it didn’t.”

“If recalibration fails, isn’t the system supposed to alert the agent and take his scenario offline?”

Just as the tech was about to answer, something started beeping at another station.

“S2, multiple medical abnormalities,” the tech from that station called out. Neal slid his phone into his pocket and moved to the edge of his seat, now paying careful attention. _Medical abnormalities?_

“What’s going on, Frank?”

“Elevated HR and resps, and a drop in activity level.” 

“All at once?” When the tech nodded, the instructor frowned. “Out of the acceptable ranges for this simulation?”

“Pulse and respirations have exceeded the acceptable range, status red for both. Any history of panic attacks?”

The instructor shook his head. “Oh, no. S2 is Agent Burke. I’ve worked with Peter Burke many times – rock solid. I think he’d stay frosty even if we told him the world was about to end.”

The beep sounded again, and the technician pointed to the readings on the screen. “Then there’s something else wrong with him.”

Neal stood, his own heart starting to quicken its pace. He moved forward and tried to get a better look at the screen, to see if he could decipher anything there, but nothing made sense.

“Bring him up on video one and broadcast audio. Switch me over to S2 vox only. Continue simulation with S1, 3, and 4.”

A dark, grainy image suddenly appeared on the large flatscreen at the front of the control room. Neal could barely make out a figure moving around on the screen, and he jumped when a sound started emanating from speakers in the corners of the ceiling. It was someone breathing heavily, and he was positive it was Peter.

The instructor put on a headset with a microphone and pressed a button on the side of one earpiece. “Peter, it’s Alan Rotz. Can you hear me?”

The figure on the screen whirled as if startled by the disembodied voice in his helmet. “Get me out,” he grunted, sounding as though his teeth were clenched.

“Hey, can you take a few deep breaths and tell me what’s going on? We’re a little concerned about your vitals.”

“I need to get out. Now.” As he moved closer to the screens surrounding him, Neal could finally see him. Peter was running his gloved hands over the walls while the images around him cast an eerie glow on his sensor suit. “Where’s the damn button?” Neal heard him mumble, and he realized that Peter was looking for the emergency stop button the trainers had mentioned before the agents entered the simulator. It wasn’t like the veteran agent to lose his bearings so easily, and watching him struggle with something that should have been easy for him was unsettling.

The instructor – Rotz – leaned over to one of the techs. “Take S2 offline immediately but proceed with the sim. Give him a non-fatal GSW to the leg. We’ll see how the other agents deal with that.”

He looked back up at the large screen. “Peter, we’re taking you offline. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Can’t find the button,” Peter said, his breathing labored. “I’m sick. Need to get out.” There was a loud groan of discomfort, and then Peter’s strained voice again, sending cold tendrils of worry into Neal’s stomach. “Open…the fucking door…Alan.”

Rotz reached over and pressed a red button on one of the panels, and fluorescent light flooded the room on the screen. As Neal watched, Peter stumbled and nearly fell to his knees before managing to recover and disappearing from view.

Neal walked up behind Alan Rotz, barely noticing that his hands had started shaking. “Excuse me, Agent Rotz? Where did he go? What’s going on?”

Before the other man could answer, Peter burst through the door at the side of the room where he’d disappeared half an hour earlier. He’d removed his helmet, and his hair was drenched with sweat and stuck to his head. His face was a frightening pasty white color, slightly tinged with green, and covered in perspiration. The back of one hand was pressed to his mouth, and he squinted at the brightness into which he’d emerged.

“Peter?” Neal started to reach for him, but the taller man rushed across the room and hurried through another door, his shoulders flinching. Neal turned back to Rotz, who looked puzzled. Knowing that the agent probably had to stay with the simulation, he held up a hand. “I’ll go with him.”

Rotz finally acknowledged Neal’s presence, if only to nod at him. “Yeah, you do that. We’ll send the medic.”

Neal returned the nod, wondering if the men in the room had temporarily forgotten he was a CI and not an agent. He wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

\-------------

Though Neal didn’t know his way around, it wasn’t hard to find Peter. He walked through the room where the agents had donned their sensor suits and instinctively went to an open door on the other side. As soon as he stepped into the short hallway beyond, he could hear someone retching violently. The hallway dead-ended with two doors, one to each side, marked as restrooms.

He knocked on the door to the men’s room. “Peter? Should I come in?” He really didn’t want to be in a small room with someone who was vomiting, but the sudden change in Peter’s condition scared him. He’d only seen his handler and friend looking that ill once before, when he was poisoned while working on the Novice case. He’d almost died, and though Neal doubted this was anywhere near as serious, he wasn’t taking any chances. If the techs had been concerned about Peter’s vital signs, that was enough of a reason for him to be worried as well.

The only answer to his question was more painful-sounding retching. He tried the doorknob, and it turned, so he pushed the door open. Peter was kneeling in front of the room’s only toilet, gasping for air, his gloved hands death-gripping the seat. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t seem to notice that Neal was there.

“Peter?” Neal kept his voice soft, not wanting to startle the other man.

Peter waved a hand weakly in his general direction, then suddenly leaned forward, his shoulders heaving as he vomited again.

Neal moved toward him, but then the smell stopped him in his tracks. The sauerkraut smelled even worse coming back up, and Neal turned his face away quickly, burying it in his shoulder and trying to force down the saliva that rushed into his mouth. The last thing Peter needed was for him to get sick, too. He closed his eyes and breathed through the nausea, satisfied for the time being that he was at least in the same room in case Peter’s condition worsened.

Peter let out a long, miserable groan and laid his head down on one of his arms on the toilet seat, then mercifully reached up to flush, bringing the odor down to a much more tolerable level. When Neal risked looking over at him, the other man was clutching his stomach with his free hand, and his whole body was shaking.

“Peter?” Neal stopped by the sink, grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser, and ran them under cold water. He slowly approached Peter, who was still leaning on the toilet seat, his breathing ragged. “Hey. You done?”

Peter’s eyes were closed, and he moaned, rocking his head back and forth on top of his arm. “No.” As if on cue, he leaned forward to be sick again, retching repeatedly until there was nothing left. Adding insult to injury, he was hit with a wave of dry heaves that made the muscles in his neck and shoulders stand out in a startling manner.

When he finally finished, he put his head back down on his arm, gasping for air. Neal reached over to flush the toilet, then draped the wet paper towels over the back of the other man’s neck and held them there. Peter just blinked, too overwhelmed to do much more. His face and neck were drenched in sweat, and he continued to tremble. His brown eyes were clear but unfocused, and Neal bent to look into them.

“Peter?” The eyes continued staring straight ahead. “Hey, you with me?”

Finally, after a few lethargic blinks, Peter managed to focus on him. “Neal?” His voice was a weak, almost unrecognizable whisper. He tried to push himself away from the toilet and started to tip sideways, but Neal managed to grab him. 

“Whoa, lay down. On your side if you can.” He didn’t want Peter to choke if he got sick again, and the older man wasn’t in any condition to figure it out on his own.

Peter reached out to help lower himself to the floor and curled up on his side, one arm under his head and the other wrapped tightly around his abdomen. He groaned from deep in his chest, then looked helplessly up at Neal.

“Jesus. H. Jumped. Up. Bald. Headed. Mother. Fucking. _Christ_.” He closed his eyes and winced. “On a…goddamned…bicycle.”

Neal stared at him, eyes wide. “Wow,” he breathed. He’d never heard Peter string profanities together quite so artfully. “That was…yeah. I don’t think I have a comeback for that.” He got another wet paper towel and tentatively wiped the side of Peter’s face and neck with it, expecting to be swatted away and then troubled by the fact that it didn’t happen. Peter simply laid there, eyes still closed, trying to catch his breath through barely-parted lips and moving as little as possible. 

A sudden knock at the door startled them both.

“Hey, anyone in there? You need some help?” The doorknob turned, and the door opened slowly, just far enough for the person on the other side to stick his head in and survey the scene. His eyes fell on Peter first, and he rushed inside, turning to Neal. “I’m Marc, the on-site paramedic. Got a call about a medical issue. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Neal admitted, leaning protectively over Peter. “He was in the simulator, and he got really sick pretty quickly. Might be food poisoning. He had some pretty nasty-smelling hot dogs for lunch.”

Peter groaned from beside him. “Not…the food,” he mumbled. “Dizzy. Feels like…seasick…but _way_ worse.”

“You don’t get seasick.”

Peter started to reply, but a wave of nausea hit him, and he gagged. He reflexively tried to roll over onto his knees, and Marc got down on the floor beside him to help, his hands bracing Peter’s shoulders as he started retching again.

“Easy, easy,” the medic said softly. There was nothing left for Peter to bring up, but his mouth hung open through the heaves, saliva dripping from it onto the tile floor. Neal stayed close to Peter’s other side, running a soothing hand up and down his back and feeling the man’s muscles tensing and rippling under his hands.

When the dry heaves finally eased, Peter pitched forward suddenly, his forehead barely making contact with the floor before Marc pulled him back. The medic helped Peter lay back on his side, and his fingers moved to Peter’s wrist, checking his pulse. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and rested the end briefly against Peter’s chest and back, listening closely. When he was done, he turned his attention to Neal, who was watching closely and trying not to feel inept.

“What’s his name?”

“Peter Burke.” _Who almost passed out just now._ Peter was no longer even groaning, and his breaths were coming in shallow gasps.

“And you?”

“Neal Caffrey.” Neal tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He wanted to grab the man and shake him, wanted to demand that he figure out what was wrong with Peter.

“Okay, Neal, were there any other symptoms that you noticed, or just the vomiting? And is he on any medications that you know of?”

Neal just stared at him for a moment, his concentration starting to waver. The coldness he’d felt in his stomach in the control room had worked its way through his entire body. “Just, um…sweating and shaking. No medications.”

“Okay, good.” _Good? He looks like death warmed over._

Marc leaned over Peter, who looked hopelessly fragile, his body tucked in on itself like a child. “Peter, I’m Marc. I’m a paramedic, and I’m going to get you out of here and give you some help. I need to leave you here with Neal for a minute, but I’ll be right back to take you to the infirmary.”

Peter didn’t respond, but Marc nodded at him anyway, then turned to Neal. “I’ll be right back with a gurney. We’ll take him back to the infirmary, get him some antiemetics, maybe some fluids to rehydrate him. His breathing’s a little shallow, but it’s steady, and he’s got a strong pulse. I think he’ll be fine. It could be food poisoning, but I’m more inclined to go with simulator sickness.”

Neal’s panic started to ease at the medic’s reassuring words. “What’s that?”

“It’s a form of motion sickness. I’ll explain after we get him out of here. If he starts to vomit again, make sure he stays on his side or his knees, not on his back.”

Neal nodded, and with one more look at Peter, Marc stood and left.

Neal slid closer to Peter’s side and started to rub his back once again. “Did you hear that? He said he thinks you’ll be fine. I know you don’t feel that way now, but just hang in there, okay?” He realized he was rambling but didn’t know what else to do. “I don’t know what the hell simulator sickness is, but he said it’s probably that and not food poisoning. I guess it really wasn’t the hot dogs. I’ve gotta say, I never would’ve thought it was possible, but they smell even less appetizing in reverse.”

Peter continued to lay on the floor, his eyes barely open, trying to stay as still as possible. His breathing was starting to even out and sounded stronger, but he didn’t try to respond, and he was still startlingly pale.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” Neal whispered, leaning closer, his voice thick. “I know it sucks to be this sick. I wish I could do more to help. I’d take some of it myself if I could.” The tightness in his throat forced him to stop. Even if Peter wasn’t seriously ill, it made Neal’s chest ache to see the man lying there looking so helpless. He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration, his hand still moving soothingly over Peter’s back.

“Neal?”

Neal jumped, his heart hammering in his chest. Peter had turned his head just enough to see the younger man beside him.

“Yeah? I’m here, Peter.”

Peter finally took a somewhat deeper breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks.”

Neal blinked a few times to clear his suddenly blurry eyes and swallowed hard before forcing a smile. “Hey, did you really think you’d get rid of me with your impressive display of digestive pyrotechnics? I’ve spent a lot of time around a lot of people who drink a _lot_ of alcohol. It comes with the territory.”

The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched. “I…don’t get…drunk.” He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, wincing at the rawness in his throat.

Neal allowed his smile to widen. The fact that Peter was breathing more regularly and now speaking again was intensely calming. His hand moved to Peter’s shoulder and started massaging it, rubbing at the muscles that were undoubtedly throbbing from so much strain.

“It’s a shame, you know. With skills like this, we could rent you out. Between the upchuck reflex and the profanity, you’d be a big hit at frat parties.”

Peter managed a half-snort and pulled his knees up a little closer to his chest, curling his long, lean frame into as tight a ball as he could manage. “Yeah. Puke…and rally.”

\-------------

A few hours later, Peter was sitting up in bed in the infirmary, still looking decidedly weak and tired, but anxious to get out of the training center and back home.

After getting him back to the infirmary, Marc and Neal had gotten him into a bed, out of the motion sensor suit, and into his undershirt and a pair of scrub pants. Marc hooked Peter up to a bag of IV fluids and injected an antiemetic into the line to help with his still-severe nausea, as well as a pain reliever for his overworked muscles.

Though Peter remained lucid through everything and even managed to help when they changed his clothes, he quickly drifted off to sleep after the poking and prodding stopped. Marc assured Neal that it was a normal response, and that he’d be awake when his body decided it was ready. 

While Peter was sleeping, Neal texted Elizabeth to let her know what happened. She called, her voice tinged with alarm, but Neal was able to talk her out of driving to the academy. He assured her that he’d have Peter home before long, and she reluctantly agreed to stay home and wait for them after making a quick trip to get some ginger ale and soup.

His own emotional roller coaster ride left Neal feeling ready for a nap of his own, and once he was sure Peter would be safe, he crashed on the gurney – at Marc’s suggestion – for an hour. He woke surprisingly refreshed and sat in a chair next to the bed, watching Peter closely for any sign that he was coming around.

Peter slept for nearly two more hours. When he woke, Neal was standing over him, looking especially vigilant. The younger man smiled down at him and gave his hand a quick squeeze before moving out of the way to let Marc do his work. The medic removed the IV and gave him a quick explanation of simulator sickness, along with the suggestion that he go home, sleep, and try not to move much for the next several hours. He had no explanation for why Peter, who wasn’t prone to motion or simulator sickness and had completed the first test successfully, was so severely stricken this time, but he hoped Alan Rotz would have an answer for them. He also said it was the worst case of simulator sickness he’d ever seen, by far.

Just as Marc got a call about a trainee with a finger laceration, Rotz showed up, looking as though he was done for the day. “He’s good to go when you’re done with him,” Marc said with a nod before he left. The other agent’s tie and jacket were gone, and he was now wearing a Desert Storm Veteran baseball cap, which he pushed back on his head before scratching his forehead and regarding Peter with concern.

“So, Peter, how are you feeling?”

“Been better – been worse, too, but only once or twice.”

“Yeah, well it looks like you found the glitch in the system.” When Peter just frowned, Rotz nodded. “This is an advanced simulation with all sorts of built-in failsafes. One of them involves the calibration system. If the view in your visual overlay deviates at all with the view on the screens around you, the system is supposed to automatically recalibrate and synchronize the images so it doesn’t make you ill. In the event that the recalibration fails, it’s supposed to let you know and remove you from the simulation altogether. Neither of those happened in your case, and the visuals continued to run for several minutes while they were out-of-sync with each other.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “And that caused your simulator sickness. Peter, I’m truly sorry this happened. If it’s any consolation, not even an astronaut or fighter pilot would have been able to handle a deviance like that for very long.”

“Hmm.” Peter shrugged, then grimaced at the pain in his shoulders. “Thanks, but it doesn’t really help.”

Rotz allowed a diffident smile. “So I guess you won’t want to come back for the next round of testing?”

“Oh no,” Peter considered shaking his head but thought better of it. “You know I’m not a quitter, but I am _not_ going to risk having this happen again. Find yourself an astronaut or a fighter pilot.”

“Understood. Hey, do you still play poker on Fridays?”

“Not as much as I used to, but I sit in with the guys from crisis negotiation sometimes.”

“Ah, yeah. See, that I can’t do. Those guys have _no_ tells – and the best poker faces.”

“I like the challenge,” Peter said with a sly grin. “And they do have tells.”

Neal stood off to the side, absorbing the details of the banter and filing them away for possible use in the future. He thought maybe they’d momentarily forgotten his presence, but it was a relief to see Peter looking and sounding more like his old self in any case.

“Leave it up to you to figure them out.” Rotz shook his head in disbelief and returned the grin. “So, you ready to hand over that gorgeous wife yet?”

Peter gave him a mock threatening look. “Over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Stand down, Marine.” Peter tried to growl the words, but his tired throat was having none of it, and they ended up coming out in a broken half-whisper. Though they chuckled about it, the sound sobered them, and the small talk stopped.

“You need someone to take you home, Peter? You shouldn’t be driving at all today.”

Peter shook his head. “We’re fine, Alan. Neal can drive us back.”

Neal looked sharply at Peter, and he opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again at Peter’s cautioning glance.

Rotz looked doubtfully at Neal before turning his attention back to Peter. “Your CI is allowed to drive?” 

“These are extenuating circumstances, and it’s a half hour drive at most. We’ll be fine.” Neal noted with amusement that he never answered the question. _Nice deflection, Agent Burke._

Rotz gave a shrug and held out his hand to Peter, who shook it. “Okay, Peter, that works for me. I’ll let you get out of here. I’d imagine you’re anxious to get home.”

“Thanks, Alan. Good luck with the rest of the testing.”

“Yeah. We’ll let you know how it turns out.” He turned to Neal and gave him a curt nod. “Thanks for helping Peter and staying out of trouble today, Caffrey. I have to admit, I’m impressed. You’re welcome to come back any time to observe, as long as you’re with Peter.” He offered his hand to Neal, who was so stunned that it took him a moment to notice.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed, shaking the agent’s hand.

“Have a safe drive home.” Rotz gave them a half-wave with two fingers and then left them alone.

“Well,” Peter said, sliding gingerly off the bed, “let’s get out of here.” He reached for the plastic bag Marc had given them for the rest of his clothes and pulled out his suit pants, changing into them as quickly as he dared. Neal noticed a slight wobble and a groan of pain when Peter bent to tie his shoe, but he covered nicely before sitting down to tie the other one.

After getting a bottle of ginger ale from the infirmary fridge and stopping to retrieve Peter’s service weapon, they walked to the Taurus. Neal deliberately slowed his pace so Peter could take his time.

“Am I really driving?”

“Yeah,” Peter said without hesitation, clapping him on the shoulder. “You can even pick the radio station.”

“That’s the drugs talking, right?”

“Nope. You deserve it. I don’t know what you did, but I’ve never heard Alan say something like that about a CI. He doesn’t really believe in arrangements like ours, and he’s obviously immune to your charms.” Peter unlocked the doors and tossed the keys to Neal over the roof with a smirk. “I mean, he even invited you back.”

Neal just shrugged and flashed him a smile before slipping into the driver’s seat. “I just stayed out of the way and then went to help you,” he said when Peter was seated beside him.

“Yeah.” Peter looked over at him, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Yeah.”

Neal watched him closely for a moment, almost as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, before finally giving up and starting the car. “You ready?” 

Peter just nodded and looked away, sliding the seat all the way back and stretching his long legs out in front of him. He didn’t comment when Neal changed the radio from the Yankees game to NPR, silently fixing his eyes on the horizon line instead.

They rode back toward Brooklyn with only the radio breaking the silence. Each time Neal glanced over, expecting to see Peter fast asleep, the man’s eyes were open and fairly alert, still staring out the windshield. _At surroundings that behaved the way they should_ , Neal suddenly realized.

It wasn’t long before the lack of interaction made him uncomfortable, and Neal reached over to switch back to the ballgame, expecting at least a comment about not playing with the radio while he was driving. Peter noticed the change but still said nothing. Even when Robinson Cano cannonballed a pitch over the right field wall, the unusually subdued man only smiled. There were a few times when he opened his mouth and took a breath as if to speak, but then changed his mind, still refusing to take his eyes off the horizon.

When they made it to the expressway and were heading toward Woodside, Neal finally had enough of the silence. He was about to say something – anything – to break the monotony when he noticed Peter shift in his seat. Neal watched from the corner of his eye, deciding to remain quiet for the time being. A minute later, Peter shifted again and ran his palms down over his thighs. When he bounced his knee a few minutes later and let out what was probably supposed to be an internal groan, Neal glanced over at him nervously.

“Peter? You okay?”

“Hmm?” Peter finally looked over at him. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You’re sure? You’re looking a little…uncomfortable.”

“Neal, I’m fine.” There was a bit of anxiety in his tone this time, and Neal picked up on it immediately.

“Are you sick again? Do you need me to pull over?”

A vague look of humiliation flitted across Peter’s face before disappearing, and he shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Whatever he gave me for the nausea worked wonders.”

Neal was unconvinced and kept sneaking concerned looks at Peter, who was trying to pretend he didn’t notice. When Neal started to drift into another lane and the blind spot alert sounded, Peter finally relented.

“Okay, look. First, keep your eyes on the road. Second, I’m not getting sick again. If you really need to know, I’m a little…overhydrated.”

 _Oh._ Neal almost laughed with the relief of knowing what was wrong, but his brain reminded him how inappropriate it would be, and he just stifled a smile.

“Do you need me to stop somewhere?”

“Nah, I should be able to make it to the house.” 

Neal nodded and started to relax again. Though most of his focus returned to the road ahead, he still kept a watchful eye on Peter. There were no signs of nausea, but the knee-bouncing and shifting steadily increased until right after they’d crossed over into Brooklyn. 

“Neal, we need to stop.” He pointed to the upcoming exit, trying hard to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Now – here – get off.”

Neal managed to exit the expressway, ignoring the beeps of protests from the Taurus as he cut across two lanes of traffic, and took Peter to the nearby McDonald’s. As he waited, he marveled at the fact that he was sitting in the driver’s seat of an FBI vehicle, completely alone – if only for a minute or two. Only a few years ago, the temptation to drive off into the sunset would have been too much, but now he just sat back and relaxed, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t watching the clock to make sure Peter wasn’t taking longer than he should. 

When Peter emerged a few minutes later, Neal noticed that he was walking slowly and mopping at his face and neck with a wet handkerchief. His heart sank, but he made an attempt to be nonchalant as the other man sat back down beside him.

“You alright?”

“Sure. Just cut it a little closer than I thought. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

Neal pulled out and headed toward the next entrance ramp. “You didn’t freak me out. Actually, you left me by myself in the car. I’m not sure if I should be thrilled or concerned.” He snuck a glance at Peter, who was running the handkerchief over his forehead.

Peter chuckled and shook his head. “I notice you didn’t run.”

“Why would I run? I have a car.” It was half-hearted, and Neal thought Peter could probably tell, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on with the man sitting next to him.

Peter let out a long, gruff sigh and leaned his head back against the headrest. “You don’t believe me.”

“Now you know how I feel,” Neal murmured.

Peter tossed the handkerchief on top of the unopened ginger ale bottle in the cup holder and stared over at him. “Okay, fine. You want a detailed play-by-play? I went in and took a nice, long, _very_ gratifying piss. After I washed my hands, I decided to wash my face. Bending over the sink gave me a little bit of a head rush – not even enough to really make me dizzy. Then the muscles in my back decided to remind me that they’d had enough stress for today, so now I’m walking like an old man. The handkerchief was in my back pocket, and I wanted to use it to clean up a little bit. In case you’ve forgotten, I spent part of the afternoon hanging over a toilet and laying on the floor of a men’s room, puking my guts out and sweating like I ran a marathon in Death Valley. I could really, _really_ use a long shower – but first, I just want to go the hell home.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to rein in his frustration.

Neal turned his attention back to the road, not sure how to respond. Peter’s outburst stunned him, though the explanation made perfect sense. It still did nothing to clear up the uncomfortable silence earlier in the trip, or why Peter had stopped himself from speaking more than once.

He didn’t need to wait long to find out. After another deep sigh, Peter turned off the radio.

“Neal, I’m sorry. You know, I’ve had a pretty bad day, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I, um…I’ve actually been wanting to thank you.” He paused for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was considerably softer, and there was a vulnerable note to it that Neal had rarely heard. “I can’t remember the last time I was that sick, and it came on so suddenly that it really caught me off guard. Maybe – and I don’t want to hear this going around the office tomorrow – but maybe it scared the hell out of me.”

Neal looked over at Peter, expecting him to be staring out the windshield again, but the other man was watching him closely.

“Anyway, I wanted to let you know that it helped to have you there. It was nice to hear a familiar voice. I started to feel a little…detached, I guess, and you kept bringing me back. I think the whole thing would’ve felt a lot worse if you hadn’t been there, so thank you. I appreciate how you handled things today.”

As Neal’s mind tried to process everything he’d just heard, he felt the whole atmosphere change inside the car. The uncomfortable silence was gone, the feeling that Peter wanted to tell him something and was holding back was no longer relevant, and he’d stopped worrying that Peter was heading for a relapse. The mood was lighter, and for the first time since Peter had gotten sick, there was an overwhelming feeling of normalcy settling over him.

“I, uh – yeah, Peter.” He cleared his throat and hoped his cheeks didn’t look as warm as they felt. “Hey, you’ve got my back, I’ve got yours, right?” He glanced over and was relieved to see an amiable smile on the agent’s face.

“That’s right,” Peter said with a firm nod, his voice still raspy from the strain of being ill, but now stronger. “You really proved it today.”

“Well as long as we’re being honest, it scared me, too.” When Peter’s eyebrows shot up, Neal flashed him a sly smile. “You know, you turned a fascinating shade of green and white, and then there was an unimaginable amount of sauerkraut-scented vomit, followed by the most shocking lesson in profanity that my delicate ears have ever heard.”

Peter started to chuckle, which only encouraged Neal to continue. “Then you looked like you were almost dead, and the next thing I know, the medic’s sticking you with needles like you’re his personal voodoo doll. You passed out, I passed out. When we woke up, I think I was hallucinating because a senior FBI agent thanked me, paid me a compliment, _and_ invited me back. And you let me drive. Forgive me if I keep looking for the signpost up ahead.” 

At that, Peter started laughing outright, and Neal thought it might have been the best sound he’d heard all day. He grinned, finally allowing himself to relax and enjoy the moment. 

When Peter stopped laughing, he turned the radio back on and settled back in the seat, once again stretching his legs out as far as he could. They were almost back to his house, and he was clearly feeling more relieved with each passing mile.

“So I guess I flunked out of obedience school?”

This time, it was Neal’s turn to laugh, and it felt remarkably cleansing. “Well, you failed the SITS part, but you taught an honors course in advanced regurgitation. That’s got to count for something.”

“Oh, after going through all of that, it better count for something.”

Neal found a parking space a few houses away from the Burkes’ and made a quick show out of expertly parallel parking the Taurus as well as it would have done itself. Peter was thoroughly impressed, but it was also clear that his energy was starting to wane again. He still hadn’t emerged from the car by the time Neal came around to the passenger side, though the door was open and his feet were on the sidewalk.

“Peter?”

“Gettin’ there.”

“Dizzy?”

“Just a little worn out, I think. Maybe.”

Neal held out a hand, and Peter gratefully took it, letting the other man haul him up out of the passenger seat, too enervated to be embarrassed by the fact that he was depending on someone else for such a simple task.

“Thanks, Neal.” He took the keys from Neal and pocketed them. “Hey, why don’t you come on in? Not that I even want to think about food right now, but we’ll get you something to eat, and then El can take you home.”

Though Neal had planned to take a cab back to June’s, Peter’s mention of food reminded him that he hadn’t had anything since the noodles, hours earlier. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, Peter.”

By the time they got to the bottom of the steps, El was coming out to meet them. She gave Peter a quick once-over, and seeing that he looked basically fine, pulled him into a tight hug. He winced, and Neal considered saying something to save the man’s sore muscles from his wife’s relieved embrace, but the look of pain on Peter’s face gave way to a serenity that made him swallow the words and smile.

\-------------

Neal sat on the terrace in the darkness, leaning back in the chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, staring up at the glow of the Chrysler Building. He was working his way through a glass of Latour, in spite of the fact that he’d already had two glasses of wine with dinner. He’d managed to convince himself that it was more because Mozzie opened it while he was gone – and actually left plenty for him – and not because he’d had a nerve-wracking afternoon.

Peter had only lasted through a third of his egg drop soup, eaten with an uncharacteristic timidity that would have been amusing in any other circumstance, before pushing it away in favor of ginger ale. Neal almost felt guilty about eating what would have been Peter’s portion of leftover lasagna bolognese, but he’d done so at Peter’s insistence, and it was better than what he would’ve felt up to making at home.

They’d told Elizabeth about what happened at the training center, though Peter did more nodding off than talking. Taking that as a cue to make himself scarce, Neal started to call for a cab, but El insisted on driving him home. While she’d made a quick trip to the bathroom, Peter woke up long enough to walk Neal to the door.

“Neal, I just, uh…thanks again. It’s nice to know that…” He’d trailed off and glanced down at his feet.

“Yeah, Peter, anytime.” Neal had shrugged and flashed him a smile, and Peter had responded – quite unexpectedly – by pulling him into a warm and grateful hug. Neal returned it, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on Peter’s aching shoulders. When they’d pulled away, Peter’s usual confidence had returned, and he was smiling.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’ll be there?” Neal’s eyebrows had shot up before he’d thought to stop them, and it made Peter’s grin widen.

“Of course.” He’d given a matter-of-fact nod just as El came down the stairs.

Most of the conversation on the drive to Neal’s apartment had consisted of Elizabeth thanking him and enlightening him as to why the ordeal may have affected Peter more than most. He hated throwing up, she’d told him, with a passion that he reserved for very few other things in life. It was the reason why he never got falling-down drunk, and he’d once told her that he’d rather suffer a non-fatal gunshot wound than worship at the porcelain altar. She was almost positive he’d been serious. 

“He thinks he’s dying,” she’d said, “or that he has to get well just to die.”

“Hey, no judgment here. After seeing what he went through today, I don’t blame him.”

“You know, I’m actually surprised he allowed you help. I think the whole idea of you seeing him in a weak moment really freaks him out. Well, okay, he doesn’t want _anyone_ to see him that way, but especially you. I’m glad he was finally able to get past that and let you take care of him.”

Neal hadn’t been sure how to respond to that, so he’d just shrugged and made some off-hand comment about how Peter hadn’t had much of a choice in his condition.

As he took another sip of wine, he pondered her remarks, turning them over in his mind like one of Mozzie’s Rubik’s Cubes. His relationship with Peter had indeed changed since they’d gotten through the whole Pratt ordeal. It brought them closer together, not only because of Neal’s shorter leash, but because of how hard they’d both fought to clear Peter’s name and prove that they deserved to work as a team again.

Though it was subtle, Peter had started treating Neal like he owed him a huge debt of gratitude. Neal, on the other hand, had become exceedingly protective of Peter. The day’s events had only served to confirm that fact, and it shocked him that in those moments, he’d felt less like Peter’s ward and more like his partner. His attitude and reaction had even been noticed – and alluded to – by Agent Rotz.

Peter’s illness, and Neal’s response to it, was a yet another reminder of how different things were now. Seeing Peter in such a disconcerting condition, even though it turned out to be relatively minor, reminded Neal of how much Peter meant to him and how much Neal now counted on him being there.

There had never been many certainties in Neal Caffrey’s life. He’d come to terms long ago with the fact that there would always be a certain amount of unpredictability and instability as long as he chose to live the way he did. After he’d paired up with Peter Burke, though, all of that had started to change. It was gradual at first, but the longer they spent together, the more Neal came to depend on Peter’s resolute presence.

As he finished his wine and went inside to get ready for bed, he reflected on perhaps the most important certainty of all – one which had been spelled out earlier that evening in just a few short words.

_You’ll be there?_

_Of course._

***


End file.
